


Draught

by wickedrum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, Emetophilia, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Stomach Ache, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: Set: Showverse. Turns out witchers can get a little drunk and hungover. Fits into most parts of Season 1, assuming Jaskier is travelling around with Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	Draught

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I barely own my knickers. When I am writing, it's mainly for my own pleasure.
> 
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier, mostly friendship.
> 
> I never played the game, only read one of the books, but the show is too compelling not to get involved in some way or another.

“Oh, you’re still here?” Jaskier slid onto the bench next to Geralt in the small inn they’ve had lodgings at, “have you not moved from here, must have been a few hours overall, no? I’m sorry I’m late but turns out they wanted another performance from me over at the count’s auditorium.”

“Been to piss.” Geralt answered the question in his word-stingy way. 

“Well, good. Do you mind if we go upstairs to our room? I’m afraid I’ve sang too much today and my voice would not be the same if they’d asked me again for another round here,” he put a hand suggestively on the other man’s shoulder to urge him on. 

“Hmm.” The witcher raised his cup to finish it, then slammed it back down onto the table before standing, apparently listening to the plea, though he did knock over the empty cup in the doing so and his heavy frame bumped into the side of the table as he tried to manoeuvre his legs round the bench, making it tilt precariously. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jaskier grabbed after it to stop it from tipping over, “Geralt, are you alright?” He hovered a hand behind the witcher just in case, “have you been drinking the whole time I was away?”

“Who’s paying the sixty-five oren?” The barkeep was in his way. “Witcher here said you will.”

“Did he now?” The bard groused. He was looking for eye contact, but Geralt’s eyes seemed hazy and unfocused and he put out a hand to help his balance by grabbing at a beam. “That’s pretty much most of what I’ve earned today Geralt!” Confused by not getting a response, and the whole occurrence, he dug into his pockets to produce the coins nevertheless, “what have you been giving him?”

“Mostly Beauclair White and Mahakaman mead. He also took part in a drinking contest he wasn’t charged for, which he won by the way.”

“Oh, by the gods, why?” The question was rhetorical given the witcher’s sodden state, “I didn’t know witchers could get drunk,” Jaskier commented as he steered the older man towards the back and up the stone slabs serving as stairs leading up to the rooms. 

“I could still slay a wraith,” Geralt held. 

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it.” And Jaskier didn’t. He doubted however that Geralt would have not tumbled over the low railing if he wasn’t guiding him to keep to the side where the wall was. 

“Jask.” Geralt stopped right at the edge of the steepest step on the top, a place where two steps would have been too small to have so they just put one in instead, “isn’t it weird we’re here?” He sounded very serious and deep in thought. 

“Here where Geralt,” the bard gave the witcher’s butt a little nudge that got him moving again, “on this continent? In the world? In this inn? In this town! With no beast to slay!”

“Well, you did agree we’d make this one detour since I’ve always been well appreciated here.”

“That is weird.”

“If you say so..though I’m not particularly happy you still don’t value my singing when it brought us out from a tight situation a number of times,” Jaskier opened their door, “not to mention the financial aspect.”

Geralt shook his head, “mm, weird that I can just sit in the pub for a whole day and nobody’s attempting to throw me out. You, your presence, your existence makes me appear more human,” the witcher didn’t seem able to stay on his feet for long as he took a beeline towards the bed immediately. 

“Is that bad?”

“No, not bad,” Geralt sounded sleepy as he tilted like a sack of potatoes onto the covers, “but definitely weird.”

Jaskier shook his head, “this is not normal from you. Any chance someone spiked your drink? Would that even work on you?”

Geralt’s forehead creased and his expression turned confused in a lax way, “nno.”

“Alright,” the barded patted the side of the witcher’s face to convince himself, “if you’re sure..but you’re seriously steamed,” he reached to pull the other’s boots off, dropping the hunter’s legs onto the bed when he was finished. 

“Mm, sailing,” Geralt moaned, his eyes shutting and opening lazily, his head lulling from one side to the other.

“Sailing?” Jaskier shook his head again. This was going to be amusing. 

“I get seasick,” the grey haired wolf informed him, “and portal sick. But don’t tell. In songs.”

“I’m not going to,” the entertainer promised, “wouldn’t be good for image promotion. Though I can’t promise I’m not going to tease you with it.” He paused, contemplating the information, “wait, are you going to puke? Cause buddy, we ain’t on no sea and there’s no gunwale to lean over.”

Geralt frowned, showing confusion again while curling up and rubbing the side of his face into the pillow where he stayed with his mouth covered. It made Jaskier jump for the coal bucket by the fire, “don’t you dare make me clean that up!” He panicked, not keen on even the sight of vomit.

“You don’t have to worry,” Geralt swallowed thickly, “white honey clears any toxicity, not just of potions.” The sentence being too long for his state, he groaned and buried his face into the pillow again as if forcing the outside world out as an influence on himself. He could still hear his roommate for all that, shuffling about, getting his bag, “no, no,” the witcher moaned, “I didn’t ask for it. I’m not going to waste it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Looks necessary to me,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, “I cannot even imagine the amount of alcohol that could get you this plastered.” The poet was equally taken aback by Geralt’s sudden leap to reach the side of the bed and be violently sick, and not even looking like he was able to keep himself up properly for how he had to curl over, holding his stomach. 

Jaskier gasped in horror, undecided whether he should jump out the way or pull the witcher’s hair out the way of the foul smelling torrent. It was pretty certain there were a lot of different types of alcohol in there, but the rhymist was making an effort to avoid looking. “Geralt!” The younger man expressed his disgust, with a side of trepidation, “are you absolutely certain you weren’t poisoned?”

The witcher wasn’t sure speaking was an option at the moment with his stomach jumping up into his throat unexpectedly and erratically, “physics,” he retched again.

“You want a physician?” Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was flabbergasted more by the request or the amount of fluids pooling at his feet that missed the bucket. 

Geralt heaved some more before an answer, “no. It’s just there’s not enough physical space in my stomach for..” He gagged, desperately trying to stop himself with some forced breaths that sounded painful.

“No kidding,” the bard winced half in sympathy, half in disgust till he noticed the tremors going through the other’s body. Geralt’s teeth clenched in the effort to control his internal organs and the undertaking had him sweating and pale, his whole body stiff to the point of convulsion. 

“Relax, let it out Geralt, it’s just me,” Jaskier found it hard to watch his favourite witcher suffer. Rounding the growing puddle he’d have to take care of later, he went behind to the other side of the bed and knelt to rub Geralt’s broad shoulders comfortingly from the back as he lost his precarious control and resumed retching, and more laboriously too by the minute. There was no way that wasn’t hurting his belly. “That’s alright, there cannot be much left in your stomach.”

At long last, the witcher spat and cleaned his lips with his sleeve. His hand was shaking a little he noticed and so did Jaskier, Geralt was sure of that, but right now he could do nothing else than fall back into the bard’s waiting arms and close his eyes to ward off the lingering nausea and the sensation of the building spinning. Jaskier was wrong, he was far from done if judging by the painful churning of his innards, this was a lull only. His muscles hurt too from the unusual way they were forced to twist. Behind him, the bard started to move, pulling at pillows and apparently attempting to replace himself with feathers. “No,” Geralt clamped his mouth shut with his hand, the motion setting him off again. 

“Holy clouted shag-eared flap-dragon!” Jaskier cursed, not so much at the flow of possibly bile that erupted from the witcher he already got used to seeing, but reacting more to how his muscles seemed to clamp up as he lurched to the side of the bed again. “Geralt, I’m getting really worried,” the singer tried to gently prompt the other to share more in detail what was bothering him. The grey wolf could only shake his head to argue on instinct as in reality he wasn’t feeling better. Even though the heaves abated for the moment, his stomach was not showing any signs of settling, it fact it was cramping worse and deeper, lower, to an extent that it made even him wonder whether he was correct in his estimation that it was only the sheer amount of alcohol that was affecting him. 

“Are you done you think?” Jaskier couldn’t really imagine otherwise. He moved to guide and ease the witcher fully back onto the bed. 

Geralt really wasn’t sure. At this point he was too tired to figure it all out or do anything else different to what he was prompted to do. He alternated swallowing thickly with deep breaths, which didn’t go unnoticed by his friend, “come on, lean back onto me a little bit higher, it might help,” he rearranged his legs with some difficulty and a little bit of acrobatics so that the witcher could fit between them without being jostled too much. “Now really try not to be sick on me,” he pleaded despite the supportive gesture.

“I’m not that careless,” Geralt groused, somewhat weirded out by the palm rubbing at his arms reassuringly. It wasn’t too unwelcomed, but even the slightest movement exacerbated his terrible nausea, a shiver going through his frame. Jaskier wound a hand round and under the bangs of his companion’s fringe to go to Geralt’s forehead in response.

The witcher moaned, letting his head fall forward into the provided support. “I don’t get it. You don’t have a fever,” Jaskier commented worriedly. Geralt wanted to tell him to shut up as the bard’s chattering was annoying him more than usual in his current state. He groaned his displeasure over it, but it somehow turned into a sound resembling a whine when his belly cramped intensely, making him bend over a little. Geralt was surprised to find that Jaskier’s hand went there first before his own could. 

“Your muscles seem even more rigid than usual,” the bard observed sympathetically, “and you’re kind of bloated. How could you be bloated? I mean yes, mixing drinks is not a very good idea but you’re a witcher.”

“Stop doctoring. You’re a bard,” Geralt argued to try to mask and avoid Jaskier noticing that the severity of the churning in his stomach made him break into a sweat. 

“I’m not just a bard. Though being a bard is not something to disregard as ‘just’ either,” Jaskier couldn’t help but touch the subject before concentrating on more important matters for the moment, “how about that potion?”

“Mm,” Geralt contemplated, “I don’t think I can keep it down.” He sounded miserable. 

“What can I do to help then?”

Geralt shook his head again, “go to sleep, leave me alone.”

“Because that’s what friends do? I don’t think so.” The bard stood up however in case the hunter wanted peace. “I’ll clean up the mess for now. I’ll go ask for a mop.” Relieved he wasn’t expected to perform to people present anymore, Geralt squeezed his eyes shut immediately, wishing for it to all go away. He will just have to ride this out like everything else, trying to dissociate from his badly aching stomach. He forced himself to relax, meditate, focus on the energy that permeated everything in the world. Only the grumbling whinge in his abdomen suddenly sharpened to agonising cramps and a surprised whimper escaped him as he moved around desperately, hoping that another position would alleviate the spasms and chills. 

Holding the mop he went for, Jaskier stared at him for a moment arriving back. He did not look happy with Geralt’s non-sharing attitude as he cleaned up the mess using the coal bucket to collect the waste into, but concentrated on that till the witcher’s badly muffled moan and display of his instincts to wrap his arms rigidly round his stomach. “How are you so ill?” Jaskier pressed.

“Ignore it. You don’t need to worry. Whatever it is, everything always heals. Eventually..” Geralt’s voice cracked as he tried to ease the pain by digging his hands into his midsection. 

“Great, well, that doesn’t mean you should never do anything to help yourself,” Jaskier was tense and apprehensive despite the other’s promises that all will be well. “I’m here for you,” he finished cleaning and sat behind him again, trying a tentative, pacifying circle rub against the sick man’s back. 

Given the bard’s worried and regretful face hearing the witcher’s stomach audibly gurgle, Geralt did not have the heart to oppose. “I’m cold.” He may as well take advantage of the offered help.

“Alright,” Jaskier reached for the blanket and placed it over Geralt’s torso. “Better?” He resumed the rubbing, just as tentatively as before.

“Hmm,” the wolf made it try to sound like one of his normal typical replies, though he was merely trying to mask his groan at the severity of his cramps.

It did not escape Jaskier as he knew his friend well. “There must be something else I can do for you. Tummy rub?” 

Geralt took his time answering while Jaskier waited patiently. Then the witcher barely perceptively nodded after thinking about it. He felt too bad not to accept help. The bard was gentle as he snaked his hand around him to put it on the other’s abdomen. At first he felt around a little, assessed how tense Geralt’s stomach was in different places and only then did he dare to stroke it with light pressure, round and round. “How is that?”

“Good.” Jaskier was surprised to hear that so openly being voiced, but he definitely took it as an encouragement to venture to deepen the message. It was definitely helping, though sweat was still coming to soak through the witcher’s shirt. It made him strangely chilly under the covers. “Want to sleep,” he cocooned further, pressing himself against his bedfellow. 

Jaskier smiled at how the mighty witcher looked and acted like a little child right now, “you should take some water before you fall asleep. I don’t want you to get dehydrated.”

“Witchers don’t get dehydrated as easily as that.”

“Just the same way they don’t get drunk and sick?” Jaskier shook his head disapprovingly, “I don’t like how pale your cheeks are.”

“Hmm, alright,” the grey wolf grunted. He didn’t think that it was a good idea to potentially upset his stomach again with the water, but he was also too tired to argue with a determined bard. Jaskier could be pretty insistent when he put his mind to something.

“Just a moment,” the younger man stood to cross the room for the cup. His absence and especially that of his warm hand on Geralt’s stomach felt immediately uncomfortable. The witcher had to replace it with his own, but it wasn’t the same. 

“Take this,” Jaskier held out the cup, but did not let go of it as his friend’s shaking hand went out for it, not trusting he wouldn’t spill it, not till it was securely raised to his lips.

“Thank you,” Geralt found his sour tasting tongue actually appreciated the fresh liquid and it soothed his sore throat too. He didn’t dare take too much of it though as his belly still felt extended. 

“It’ll be here if you need it,” the bard took the cup out his hesitant hands and placed it on the commode, “as will I,” Jaskier put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder to encourage him to lie back down. 

“That belly rub,” Geralt closed his eyes as he settled, too out of sorts and intoxicated for the concept of pride to even occur to him. 

Jaskier had the good sense not to question it or draw attention to it. He simply sat back into his place and sneaked a hand over the witcher’s abdomen. Geralt tensed for the smallest fraction of time at the touch, then relaxed, giving himself over to whatever his friend was intending, trusting him completely. It was comforting, having someone he could rely on so close, being able to relinquish control, it had never happened with anyone else before. With Jaskier, he could allow himself to be vulnerable, it changed nothing. Geralt let out a comforted sigh and let himself drift to the gentle caress of his tummy.

The End.


End file.
